


I’m thinking things I shouldn’t say; I couldn’t go another day

by xiamer



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A smidge of violence, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Gen, Hurt Enjolras, IVE BEEN WAITING SO LONG TO USE THAT, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Sort Of, but enough to let me tag THIS, gross i know, im so proud of me, look at all the R i wrote, not enough for a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25838191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiamer/pseuds/xiamer
Summary: “I feel like this might actually be over. Like really, truly, absolutely over, y’know?”Enjolras settled back in his seat at the table after fiddling with the radio knobs, turning them to get to the Resistance’s secret station. As the low radio silence had signified that he had indeed missed the broadcast, Enjolras plucked the lit cigarette from Courfeyrac’s hand and brought it to his own lips.Title is from hand crushed by a mallet by 100 gecs(yes this is a wwii au with 100 gecs lyrics for the title, what about it)
Relationships: (i totally just made that tag up), Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Enjolras & Bishop Myriel, Enjolras & Les Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s), you can totally see that one if you want
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	I’m thinking things I shouldn’t say; I couldn’t go another day

**Author's Note:**

> gosh i am SO sorry for just kinda disappearing on y’all, but ive just been so busy with work and this took so long to write for some reason :/
> 
> but yes, hi i am here now !!
> 
> is this horrifically ooc ?? quite possibly ! im just tired and this fic was sooooo long and i just wanted it out, but i hope y’all enjoy anyway 
> 
> also i wrote a good chunk of this listening to “i know why and so do you” and another chunk listening to “heather” by Conan Gray, and another chunk listening to 100 gecs so i have NO idea if this is good lmao
> 
> im gonna do a lot of context in the end note so if you’d like to read that first, just skip down there :)
> 
> ***tw- theres some références to homophobia, never really explicit, but this IS set in 1944, so theres definitely underlying elements of it. a character does also get shot at one point, but the violence isn’t explicit either, and the mentions of blood are only really in passing***

“They landed in Normandy, did you hear that Jo?” Courfeyrac cocked his head at Enjolras before continuing without an answer, “I feel like this might actually be over. Like really, truly, absolutely over, y’know?”

Enjolras settled back in his seat at the table after fiddling with the radio knobs, turning them to get to the Resistance’s secret station. As the low radio silence had signified that he had indeed missed the broadcast, Enjolras plucked the lit cigarette from Courfeyrac’s hand and brought it to his own lips. He wasn’t really a smoker, but that was before France had been brought to her knees. 

Enjolras swore the day he started smoking would be the day that France surrendered. 

Needless to say he smoked a pack on 14th June, 1940. 

“Yes I did hear about it; such a shame that it could only occur four years after our defeat,” Enjolras knew he sounded bitter, but these days it was hard to reign that in, “at least something good happened on the 6th of June. Did you know that’s the day that the barricades for the June Rebellion failed? Well not so much failed as were crushed beneath the boot of an oppressive government,” Enjolras ground the tip of the cigarette down onto the ash tray that sat at the end of the table. He understood that his attitude was more befitting of Grantaire, but today was not a good day for him. Not that the day itself had been terrible, but his mind was betraying him. 

There was something wrong with his mind. It felt like a toss of a coin as to whether or not he would be clear and commanding, or if he wanted to curl up in a ball and never leave the house. But Enjolras knew what happened to people like that. The war veterans who left the trenches shell-shocked, the newly postpartum mothers, the paranoid teenagers. Depending on what side of France they were in, they would either leave with the Germans or they’d be chained down to a radiator in an asylum, waiting for the day they got the ice pick. 

Enjolras was not mad enough to warrant treatment such as that, or at least that’s what he told himself. It was simply a week of terrible days, that would be followed by those filled with progress. He was normal enough; functioning nearly properly. 

Courfeyrac seemed to notice Enjolras’ mood, and lit another cigarette for Enjolras, handing it to himself before lighting a second for himself. 

“You know what, Jo?” He motioned towards Enjolras with the hand holding the cigarette, “I think you’re pretty damn hot,” he shushed his friend as soon as he saw the glare and the retort rising from his lips, “and I know everyone else agrees with me. And you always have these emotional swings, you can be so moody you know, so I think we need to get you a wife, or at least some sort of woman in your life. I can see it now, a real pretty brunette with smart green eyes who’d be able to just give you a  _ look _ ,” Courfeyrac finished with a smirk, “and you’d be less of a dick.”

Enjolras took a long drag off the tip of the new cigarette. The smoke came back out in a sigh, and he rubbed his temple with one hand. 

“Courfeyrac, there are so many terribly inaccurate things that you just said. Firstly, you definitely just described Éponine, who I am completely, absolutely, and entirely not into. I’m not saying she’s not a good choice for anyone else,” he added hastily, as soon as he saw Courfeyrac’s expression fall a little, “She’s simply not for me. Secondly, women. Women are not for me. I have no interest in them, so I don’t believe that my getting a girlfriend would do anything for my mood. And thirdly, please don’t try to set me up with any. I know what you’re thinking. No, I’m not making excuses just to be more devoted to Patria, or to not have a girlfriend simply to spite you, I am just wholly uninterested in women.”

He had left out the fact that Éponine was also a devout of Sappho; it was not his place to out someone like that; and if he outed Éponine, he’d also be doing his sister a disservice. All around, it would be a terrible idea, and would also circle around to bite Enjolras back. He hoped that Courfeyrac just took his words at face value, but began to worry as soon as he saw his companion’s easy smile falter into a small frown. 

“Wait… Julien,” Enjolras froze at the use of his first name, “what are you trying to say to me?”

“What do you believe me to be saying?”

“Well,” Courfeyrac hesitated, “it seems to me like you’re saying that you aren’t into women, which could either mean you are but not right now, or,” he brought his gaze directly to Enjolras’ eyes, “or you’re a queer.”

Enjolras, for the first time in his life, averted eye contact. He left a moment’s silence before dropping his cigarette and standing, knocking over his chair in the process.

“Oh,” he said, over the clatter of wood falling onto wood, “no. No, sorry. I can’t have this conversation. I’m not talking about this Mathieu, I’m sorry. And,” he added, uncharacteristically soft and resigned, “I’m sorry that what you assumed was correct.”

And with that, he ran from the table, and through the house. Only he and Courfeyrac had been home when they started the discussion, but as he rushed past Bahorel’s room, he noticed both the owner of the room, and Feuilly sitting on the bed, an entire cascade of leaflets surrounding them. 

“Oh hey Chief,” started Bahorel, “can you help me translate one of these German pamphlets? Feuilly and I can’t figure out some of these phrases.”

“Euh, n-not right now, sorry.”

Feuilly frowned.

“Are you all good Enjolras?”

Squeaking out an affirmative, he left Bahorel and Feuilly shouting after him as he ran towards the front door. 

Where he promptly barrelled into Combeferre. 

“Whoah E, steady there. Are you alright?”

Combeferre had his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, and the earnest look he was giving him was almost enough to make him stop. 

Key word: almost. 

He shook off Combeferre’s hands, choked out a sharp, “I’m fine” and sped out the door in the direction of Notre Dame. He would go to the Café Musain, but it was too predictable and Enjolras did not want anyone to find him in the state he was in. So, he ran to Notre Dame, knowing that no one would expect him there.

The image of Courfeyrac’s confused face flashes through his mind, and he runs faster. 

The cathedral comes upon his vision before he can agonise for too long. Enjolras slows down before he seems suspicious to any passing German soldier. He all but collapses onto a bench facing the Seine, and tries to get his mind to shut off.

Someone reaches out and touches his shoulder, causing Enjolras to startle and whip around. However, instead of the Nazi guard he had been expecting, there was instead an elderly man tentatively resting his hand upon Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras sighs and relaxes at the familiar sight of Bishop Myriel. 

“Good day to you monsieur.”

“Come now Julien,” Bishop Myriel bowed his head, “follow me.”

With that, he removes his hand and begins to walk towards the cathedral. Enjolras scrambles off of the bench and follows him into the building. At their current point of time, it had been closed to the public, and Enjolras was unsure if he was actually allowed to be in there, but he didn’t want to bring the matter up to Bishop Myriel, who seemed intent on bringing him inside. 

Once inside, Enjolras found himself being sat down in a pew, right next to the Bishop. He leaned back and looked up towards the ceiling, illuminated by chandeliers and candles. 

“What is it,” Enjolras began, still tipping his head back towards the ceiling, “that you brought me in here for?”

“Julien, I have known you for many years now. I know you are not religious, yet you seem to always come here in your biggest hours of crisis. I’ve yet to see you set foot here for a regular service or anything of the like, so now that you are here, there’s something wrong. So, tell.”

Enjolras groaned and slid down further into the pew.

“Your Excellency, surely you must know that there are things I really can’t say, due to the nature of your position.”

“That has never stopped you before.”

“Yes…”

“I’m not going to force it out of you, but I know you wish to tell me.”

Enjolras sat up and started to pick at the skin of his nail beds, figuring out how to word his next statement. 

“My friend, Mathieu Courfyerac, you remember him?” Bishop Myriel nodded and Enjolras mimicked the action. “Good, good. Well, we were speaking and the topic somehow turned to romantic interests. And I told him I had no interest in women-“

“Did you tell him about your R?”

“Well, no. I simply told him that I had no romantic inclination towards women.”

“And was his assumption that you liked men instead?”

“I-“ Enjolras was taken completely aback. “Well, I- is that  _ your  _ assumption?”

“Julien,” he reached out and laughed good-naturedly, “Grantaire comes here to paint sometimes. I’ve met him before. You’ve spoken about him often enough for me to understand his mannerisms and the pun was easy enough. It’s not my place to decide who you’re allowed to love. You may assume so because of the general attitude of Christians, but it’s simply not for me to control.”

Enjolras’ mouth was opening and closing but no words were coming out. His entire body was frozen in shock. 

“It’s… okay?”

“Julien I have known you for all 20 years of your life. I’m telling you both as a friend, and as a clergyman of the Catholic Church, that it is fine. And I’m sure Mathieu would accept you as well, he was likely just confused that you were interested in anyone at all.”

“Probably didn’t help that I ran away-“

“You ran away?” Bishop Myriel cocks an eyebrow and Enjolras flushes. 

“Yes well, he didn’t sound too supportive.”

“I’m sure he was just shocked, he’ll adjust. I’m not too sure he and Combeferre are very… pure. For lack of a better word.”

“No!” Enjolras leapt to his feet. “Gross, no. My best friends? Oh they better not have done it in Combeferre’s room, you know we share one?”

Bishop Myriel’s booming laugh was the only response he got, and he began to pout, before the church bells went off; counting them he realised it was past curfew. 

“Oh  _ merde _ .”

“Language.”

“I- sorry, sorry. It’s just that it’s past curfew, and I’m 10 minutes from my house.”

“Surely you don’t intend to go now?”

“I must,” Enjolras sighed, “no one knows where I am, and I suppose it’s better to actually be arrested than for my friends to believe me to be.”

With that, Enjolras strode to the front door, bidding farewell to Bishop Myriel. He opened the door just enough to slip through, and realised that it was raining. Not simply raining, actually, more so of a torrential downpour to the point of blocking even the street light out. Enjolras was the least religious out of anyone he knew, rivalling only the chief sceptic himself in that sense. But at that moment, Enjolras thanked every God he knew of that the storm could help to hide him from any soldier patrolling the corner. 

He began to walk, taking care to always be hidden in the shadows of alleyways, and he had almost succeeded in inconspicuously making his way back home, before it all went to hell. 

Suddenly he heard a gruff voice shout, in German, “Freeze!”

Enjolras debated between freezing and running, and ultimately decided that it would be better to fail at talking himself out of an arrest, than to bring the Germans right to his friends. He turned to face the soldier, eyes zeroing in on the rifle that was pointed at him, and then plastering on a fake smile when he saw who it was. 

“Ah, hello Herr Warnerburg.”

The soldier in question, Werner Warnerburg, had the misfortune of being named in the same sense as Enjolras’ father had. He would joke with Valjean about his name, but he knew that attempting to lighten the mood with Werner would most likely lead to his own death, or worse, arrest. 

Werner was in his 29th year of life, though he had aged poorly due to the hatred burning in his soul. Like Enjolras he had the blond hair and blue eyes of the model Aryan citizen. However, his was a stark contrast to the godlike beauty of the Frenchman. Whilst Enjolras’ hair was bouncy and seemed to be woven of strands taken straight from the Golden Fleece, Werner’s was dry and straw-like. It seemed to dully sit on his head like a clump of dead grass. Enjolras’ eyes were cerulean; deep and filled with the sparkle of life and intelligence. Werner’s were icy and cold. Not in the sense that Enjolras’ could get. No, they were bordering on lifeless. Blue, like the frozen tundras of Siberia. 

Werner was an ugly soul as well. He never asked questions about any order he was given, simply following them without any thought. He was, in the truest sense, a bootlicker, a word which would more often than not be hurled at him behind him back. 

“Herr Enjolras. You are aware that you are breaking curfew?”

Enjolras feigned surprise.

“I am? I was sure it was only 8 in the evening, the last time I checked.”

“It is not. It’s currently five past 9.”

“Oh dear… am I to be taken in?”

“Perhaps.”

A sudden scream was heard from behind Enjolras, and Werner roughly hit him in the side with his weapon, shouting at him to move. Enjolras tried not to wince at the sound of a crack in his ribs as he was shoved to the right. Someone ran out from the shadows and attempted to shoot at Werner, instead missing and clipping Enjolras in the thigh. He grit his teeth, and managed to slip out of Werner’s vision, and took off running back to the house that was shared by all the members of Les Amis. 

He made it back in a shockingly short amount of time, especially given the definitely-at-least-bruised ribs and bullet to the leg he had acquired.

Enjolras ripped the front door open, and slammed it behind him and he sunk to the ground with a cry of raw pain that surely echoed throughout the entire house. 

“Enjolras! Jo I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to come off like tha-“

Courfeyrac froze when he took in the sight of his best friend crumpled at the foot of the door.

“Oh hey Courf,” grit out Enjolras, “I appear to be bleeding onto the hardwood.”

“Fuck, fuck! Joly! Ferre!” He turned and called out to the rest of the house before facing Enjolras again. “I’m going to try and partially lift you, okay?”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“Great! Then you’ll help me get you to the dining room then.”

Enjolras made a noncommittal grunt and wobbled his way to the room, where the rest of Les Amis were gathered. 

“Joly, what do- what do I do with him.”

Joly yelped and jumped up to help, telling everyone to clear the table;, an order that was followed in record time. Bahorel and Feuilly moved away chairs, Jehan cleared away any papers, Courfeyrac handed Enjolras off to Grantaire, whilst he and Combeferre took away the remnants of their dinner, and Bossuet stayed wisely away. Grantaire helped lay Enjolras across the table, making to move away as soon as Combeferre returned from the kitchen. However, Enjolras only tightened his grip on Grantaire’s hand, possibly out of it from the blood loss, but only knowing that he didn’t want Grantaire to leave his side. 

“Okay Enjolras,” Joly starts, gesturing for Combeferre to hand him his medical bag, “what happened? I need to know what I’m looking for.”

Enjolras raised his head off of the table a little in order to look at Joly. 

“I got shot in whatever leg,” he raises his left leg, “this one is.”

Courfeyrac, who had been taking a small sip from a glass of water, chokes. 

“You were  _ shot? _ ”

Enjolras noncommittally shrugs one shoulder. 

“Pretty sure. There were a lot of things. One minute I was talking to Bishop Myriel about my homosexuality, and the next minute I’m out in the rain past curfew, getting shot by someone who’s trying to hit Werner.”

“Oh man, you ran into Werner?” groans Bahorel. 

“Ye-e-e _ ss? _ ”

“Alright E,” Combeferre laid a gentle hand to push him back down, “that’s enough for now, you can tell us when you’re fully together.”

Enjolras nodded his head and turned to look at Grantaire, whose demeanour seemed calm but eyes said anything but. He hadn’t lost much blood, but he felt himself get a little delirious; the fact of which he would blame his next actions on. 

He gave Grantaire’s hand a small squeeze. 

“I love you,” he said, and promptly passed out from blood loss before he could see or hear anyone’s reaction. 

  
  


Enjolras regained consciousness and thought an undetermined amount of time later and found he was laying in his bed. He had been changed from his normal clothing to his night clothes, but before he could really wonder who it was that did it, he noticed the side of the bed dip in. Enjolras turned to see Grantaire sitting next to him. He propped himself up on the pillow and gave a weak smile, receiving a warm one in return. Grantaire reaches for his hand. 

“Hey.”

“Hi,” responded Enjolras. 

“How you feeling?”

Enjolras groaned and shifted his legs a little. Now that he was paying attention, Enjolras could feel the bandages wrapped around his left thigh and what felt like ice bags strapped to his side. 

“Well I could be better, all things supposed. What happened?”

“I feel like we should really be asking you that, but if you mean after you scared the living shit out of me, I can say that.”

“”Was,” Enjolras cleared his throat, “was it actually that bad? You were worried?”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras like he had never seen him before. “Are you serious?” at Enjolras’ nod he continued, “of course I was worried! You come home with 3 cracked ribs, and you’d better thank fucking GOD they aren’t broken, and a bullet in your leg. You then pass out and start shaking right after you tell me you love me. Any sensible human being would be worried!”

Enjolras felt his cheeks flush in shame and he looked away. That was clearly the opposite of what Grantaire wanted, as he made a wounded noise and wrapped his fingers around Enjolras’ chin, directing his gaze upwards and into Grantaire’s eyes. 

“Hey, hey. Enj, look at me, okay? You passed out right after saying it, so you didn’t hear me say it back.”

“I- what?”

Grantaire smiled. 

“I love you,” he said, “and no matter the ruler nor the oppressors, that fact will always remain true. There will never be a time where you are not revered by me. Oh fair Apollo, how sweet the sun drops taste to a young Icarus like me. How the tangles of a wild Antinous’ curls entrap me, make me never want to leave him. Orestes, let me stay by your side forever, even if I must do it drunk. I live for you, I breathe for you, I die for you. And Enjolras,” he pressed his forehead to Enjolras’, “you may be Apollo, but you are also Atlas. You carry the weight of the sky on your shoulders. Without you, the world is doomed to ruin. I know you, and I know you’d never let the sky fall, but sometimes I think you need to let someone else under, to share your burden. Let me be that person for you, Enjolras. Let me share the sky with you. If it were just me under there, I would let it fall. You know I don’t believe in humanity, I don’t believe in any of this. But you do. And I believe in you. I’d stand under the sky by myself if you asked. Say the word and I’m there. I’ll always be there. I might not believe in a better future, but I believe in you. We’re close to the end of this godforsaken war, and I know that after the Germans leave France, you won’t need to run the Resistance. If you’re lost, just know that I’ll be there for your next cause. Will I mock it? Argue over it? Have fights? I wouldn’t be me if I said no, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever leave. I’m here, and I’m here to believe in you. I am in love you.”

Grantaire pressed a chaste kiss to Enjolras’ lips. Enjolras whimpered and slipped closer, ribs be damned. All he knew was that in that moment, he  _ needed _ to be as close as possible to Grantaire. 

They had always had a complicated relationship, the entire time that they had known each other. Enjolras and Grantaire he met when Enjolras was entering lycée and Grantaire was leaving. As a first year, a 14 year old Enjolras was much the same as the 20 year old. Bright-eyed and idealistic, he believed in the goodness of people and the human heart. 

In his final year, a 17 year old Grantaire finally found something to believe in. Not the cause, never the cause; it had always been Enjolras. 

Grantaire had been friends with Combeferre, who had been the same year as him, and by association became friends with Enjolras.

Enjolras and Combeferre were practically joint at the hip despite being three years apart, and thus Grantaire was forced to spend time with Enjolras if he wanted to be around Combeferre. He was pulled into Enjolras’ little band of merrymen, and somehow became a permanent member. 

After Grantaire had graduated, he went onto the University of Paris, but still attended meetings with Combeferre when given the chance. 

By late 1938 the members of the group consisted of a very lost and exceedingly 14 year old Marius, 15 year olds Enjolras and Courfeyrac, 16 year olds Jehan and Joly, 17 year old Bossuet, 18 year olds Combeferre, Feuilly, and Grantaire, and 19 year old Bahorel. Occasionally Enjolras’ twin Cosette would tag along with him, and sometimes brought 16 year old Éponine, and 17 year old Musichetta. 

Despite there being a five year age gap between the youngest and oldest member, everyone was treated as an equal. Enjolras may have been one of the youngest members, but he was still looked to as a leader. 

Enjolras and Grantaire would argue at meetings, but Enjolras had always considered him a friend. This fact was why, on September the 3rd, 1939, Grantaire opened his door to find a trembling Enjolras, clutching a newspaper close to his chest, the headline unmistakable. 

Their relationship had changed after that day; they had grown noticeably closer and remained that way up until mid 1940 when everything Enjolras believed in was crushed under the boot of the German invasion. 

He was 17, and had cut all contact with friends, never opening the door to his room except for necessities. Cosette expressed her concern to the rest of the group, who had been running around like a headless chicken whilst their leader isolated himself. 

_ “I never see him,” _ she had said.  _ “He’s always locked away. The only time I’ve been able to see i side is when he’s in the washroom or taking food back, and every time I’ve managed to see inside, it’s a mess of books and essays. I don’t know what to do for him.” _

The group had tried to think of ideas to help him, but before they were able to settle on a specific one, it was time for everyone to go back to attending school. Enjolras emerged only then; gaunt and paler, but with righteous fury burning in his eyes. He did not mention anything to do with his months of isolation, and no one asked. 

For him and Grantaire, it was almost as if they moved backwards. They began to fight more often, and the consequences were rougher. Personal insults were thrown, harsh words were launched, and eventually one of them would storm out. 

This pattern spiralled and kept going until April of 1942. When, in a haunting echo of two years previous, Enjolras hesitantly knocked on the door to Grantaire’s flat, once again holding a newspaper. 

Grantaire had opened the door, shock immediately washing over his features. 

_ “Enjolras” _ Grantaire had said, disbelief in his tone, “ _ to what do I owe the pleasure?” _

Enjolras had simply held out the newspaper. 

_ “How can they get away with this?” _

_ “I don’t know Enj. I really don’t.” _

  
  
  


After that, they had slowly grown closer, and that led them to this very moment. 

“I…” Enjolras trailed off, still half buried in Grantaire’s side. “I outed us didn’t I?”

Grantaire brought a hand to soothingly stroke his hair. 

“I suppose you did. But it’s alright. Everyone had their suspicions anyway.”

Enjolras finally let out a breath that he had been holding since his first conversation with Courfeyrac. 

Grantaire frowned. 

“You didn’t think they were actually going to hate you for it, did you?”

“Well…”

“Enj, look at me,” he tilted Enjolras’ head up, “they won’t care, and they don’t care. The only thing that anyone’s upset about is Marius won their betting pool on when you’d finally get into a relationship. And-“

He abruptly stopped, coughed, and looked away. Enjolras’ head shot up. 

“And  _ what.” _

“Yeah listen okay, you know that C squared is definitely okay with it because… euh…”

Enjolras shifted so quickly he would’ve fallen off of the bed if Grantaire hadn’t caught him. 

“No… no they wouldn’t. Please, for the love of any god above, tell me that they did everything in Courfeyrac’s room.”

Grantaire stifled a laugh, but didn’t answer. Enjolras glared at Combeferre’s bed accusingly, as though it had personally wronged him. 

“Speaking of the others, have you the time?”

“Yeah sure,” Grantaire checked his watch, “it’s half past 10 in the evening. You weren’t out for that long.”

“Good, that’s good. And the others?”

“They’re all downstairs,” he looked consideringly at Enjolras, “I think Joly would have an aneurysm if you went down there, but I might carry you, because I have the feeling that I’d rather Joly be mad at me than you for keeping you here.”

Enjolras nodded and reached his arms out, motioning for Grantaire to pick him up. Grantaire swooped in and grabbed him bridal style, taking care to avoid jostling his ribs and not grab at his injured leg. 

“Away we go, fair prince.”

Enjolras swatted at his shoulder, but also huffed out a laugh despite himself. 

They descended the stairs and were soon in the dining room, where all of their friends were gathered, a shared worried look across all of their faces. 

It was Jehan who saw them first, scrambling up to make sure that they had at least one seat. Enjolras waved Courfeyrac off when he tried to vacate his seat as well, instead simply requesting Grantaire if he could be on his lap. The man flushed a little, but ultimately complied. As soon as they settled down, Enjolras saw every face turn to him. 

“I suppose everyone would like an explanation?”

Seven other heads nodded all at once, and Enjolras sighed. 

“Very well. Where shall I start?”

“I just wanna know where you went today,” said Courfeyrac. 

“So, after I unceremoniously ran out, I went to Notre Dame,” replied Enjolras. ‘To see Bishop Myriel,” he added after seeing everyone’s confused faces. “I’ve known him for as long as I’ve been alive and I always go to him in times of distress. But today I stayed longer than I meant to, and by the time I left, curfew had already fallen. I decided to take the risk, since I thought that the rain would be able to hide me, at least a little. And on the way home I ran into our resident boot-licking pig. Who, of course, was as vague as possible until it came to violence. Someone somewhere screamed, and he hit me hard in the side to make me move. But then someone came up with a gun and fired a shot, that hit me instead of him, however he was distracted enough that I was able to make it here.”

Everyone was uncharacteristically silent. However, Feuilly broke the silence. 

“I hate to do it to you, friend, but I don’t think you should go out anytime soon. Just lay low for a while. The last thing we need is for you to be accused of starting whatever clown show happened tonight.”

Enjolras nodded and hummed in agreement. There was a general murmur, showing that the rest of the group shared Feuilly’s sentiments. However, one person followed a different thought process entirely. 

“So,” began Courfeyrac, and Enjolras knew that this wasn’t going to end well, “how long has  _ this _ been going on?”

They all knew what he meant; he didn’t have to say the words. No one else had wanted to be the one to ask, but Courfeyrac was unashamed. 

It was Grantaire who answered.

“Oh you know,” he said with a smirk, “‘bout a year or so.”

“I- what?”

“Seriously?”

“How the fuck did we not know this.”

“I feel like you were probably really obvious and we’re just dumb.”

“Should’ve expected this honestly.”

“I,” Courfyerac began, punctuating every word, “am.  _ Hurt.  _ How could you keep this from me?”

“To be fair you never asked. Also,” added Enjolras, “when were  _ you _ going to tell  _ me  _ that you’ve been sleeping with Courfeyrac but in the same room that I live in?”

Courfeyrac squeaked and turned bright red, but Combeferre only chuckled. 

Enjolras sighed and turned to rest his head against Grantaire’s chest, the soothing feeling of his even breathing lulling him into a content state. Around him, all of his friends bickered about their love lives, and Joly had gone to phone Cosette to tell her that he was alright. Suddenly, Jehan’s voice cut clear through the group.

“So today’s June 6th… do you all want to do what I want to do?”

Enjolras noticeably perked up at the suggestion. 

“Yes!” he practically yelled. “Can we please read it, it’s a special day.”

“Alright E, calm down” laughed Combeferre, “let me go grab it. In the meanwhile, everyone go to the living room.”

There was the scruff of chairs on the hardwood floor as the members of Les Amis de l’ABC left towards their shared common space. Grantaire lifted Enjolras again, making his way towards the couch, where everyone had left a large amount of space for both him and Enjolras. 

Joly walked in with Combeferre, who settled down in a chair in front of all of his friends, as though he were the teacher to a group of small schoolchildren. 

“Alright, where do we want to start?”

“You know  _ damn well  _ where we want to start, ‘Ferre,” called Bahorel from the loveseat he was sharing with Jehan. 

Combeferre laughed again and flipped to the correct page. He cleared his throat and began to read. 

“At that epoch, which was, to all appearances indifferent, a certain revolutionary quiver was vaguely current…”

Enjolras tightened his arms around Grantaire, and began to drift off. 

In that moment, for once in his life he didn’t care about the war. They were close to the end, though he obviously did not know that in the moment. However, the French Resistance only had to hold on for a little under a year longer. And when the moment came that the papers printed headlines proclaiming the end of the Great War, Enjolras threw his arms around Grantaire and let him stand by his side as he held the sky. 

And Grantaire couldn’t be happier

**Author's Note:**

> hi :) welcome to the end note, and here’s some context !
> 
> this is set in Paris in June of 1944, right at D day; none of the characters are in the military, they’re all simply students or workers ; the 1942 paper i mention is about the Bataan Death March, where Japanese soldiers marched 60-80 thousand American and Philippine soldiers 66 brutal miles, the event is pretty horrific, as are most things with the imperial Japanese army :/
> 
> for ages here’s what we have-  
> 1919- Bahorel  
> 1920- Grantaire, Combeferre, Feuilly  
> 1921- Bossuet, Musichetta  
> 1922- Joly, Jehan, Éponine  
> 1923- Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Cosette  
> 1924- Marius 
> 
> The only person whose age I explicitly state in 1944 is Enjolras bc hes turning 21 that year because his birthday is 100% Bastille day, and this is set in June, sorry I doNt make the rules 
> 
> okey context over
> 
> Grantaire’s whole big love speech ?? yeah that made me sad writing it, like damn. im lonely
> 
> uhhh if anyone would like to access me outside of here, my Twitter is @milfilfan and it looks like im never active but i am, just not actually tweeting so yeah of you wanna talk to me or whatever, there i am
> 
> also that META ????? we love to see it 
> 
> idk what else to say but like, at work today someone called and i picked up the phone and was like  
> “[my work name here] how can i help you ?  
> Hi I’d like to place a call in order  
> sure what can i get you  
> Can I get an ah-kai-yee bowl ?”  
> i was like ????? wtf is an ah kai yee bowl  
> it’s an açai bowl, y’all, it ain’t that hard to pronounce 
> 
> but i was like uh okay Janice, you do that, lemme just put ur fuckin shredded coconut on it even tho im allergic to it but no one else was available lmao 
> 
> anyways, that was unrelated, but yeah i hoped you enjoyed reading lmao im gonna go SLEEP cuz im tired


End file.
